


Conquered Lands

by Asher_Ephraim



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Cadet Armitage Hux, Canonical Child Abuse, Colonialism, Cultural Differences, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, Homophobic Language, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Trauma, Underage Rape/Non-con, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24949429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_Ephraim/pseuds/Asher_Ephraim
Summary: “Admiral Brooks has need of you.”“Sir?” The Huxes have only just permanently relocated planetside, for Brendol to act as the full-time headmaster of Arkanis Academy and for Armitage to attend said institution. Mercifully this means the new cadet has seen little of the Admiral in the past few weeks, but it also means he has no clue in what capacity he might be needed.“I don’t pretend to understand the man’s proclivities, but he’s inclined in your favour—physically, at least—and I’ve of a mind to oblige him. Think of it as a lesson in subordination, since you’re still hoping to prove yourself useful to the Order. It may teach you a measure of deference and perseverance.”
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Brendol Hux, Brendol Hux & Brooks, Brooks/Armitage Hux
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Conquered Lands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiLo Ren (do_it_to_julia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_it_to_julia/gifts).



“A thought occurred to me recently,” Brendol begins as he pours a generous serving of brandy into the Admiral’s glass. “How to toughen Armitage up a bit.”

“Well, he's sorely in need of that.”

Brendol sets the bottle down on the sideboard and sighs, a long-suffering sound. “A fact of which I am well aware.”

“So, what's your idea, then?” Brooks asks, drumming his fingertips absently along the edge of the table.

“Hear me out.” Brendol knocks back a gulp of his own drink and launches in. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but it has discreetly come to my attention that your… _personal_ interests tend towards humans of a younger age.”

With a casual wave of his hand, Brooks responds, “Well, I can hardly be blamed for liking pretty, fresh things.”

“Quite,” Brendol allows tactfully. “But _some_ individuals—provincial, close-minded sorts, of course, I’m not including myself in this group—might argue that your tastes run to the younger than acceptable.”

“Ah.” He sounds distant, unconcerned.

“Now. You may have already surmised this, but Armitage is a hopeless homosexual.”

“ _Is_ he?” Brooks asks, licking his lips and displaying a sudden interest in the conversation.

“It’s a disgrace, of course. But he still may have some uses, you see. In satisfying certain influential men who might enjoy what he has to offer.”

Brooks is already nodding. “That sort of thing can built a boy’s character. Foster resilience. Instill obedience.”

“One can but hope,” Brendol answers wearily.

“However, if it doesn’t, if the boy simply breaks—”

Brendol is quick to finish the Admiral’s sentence. “Then he lacked potential in the first place.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement, Brendol. Go ahead and inform Armitage. I’d like to see him the evening after tomorrow. It’ll give him some time to get accustomed to the idea.”

**. . .**

At 0930 the next morning Armitage enters his father’s study, a foreboding place off-limits to him without a direct summons. He’s conditioned to approach this room with a sense of dread, heavy as it is with the memories of lashings both verbal and physical.

Brendol doesn’t offer him a seat, barely acknowledges his presence. Armitage waits at parade rest at a polite distance from the desk until the man finally looks up from his tablet and speaks.

“Admiral Brooks has need of you.”

“Sir?” The Huxes have only just permanently relocated planetside, for Brendol to act as the full-time headmaster of Arkanis Academy and for Armitage to attend said institution. Mercifully this means the new cadet has seen little of the Admiral in the past few weeks, but it also means he has no clue in what capacity he might be needed.

“I don’t pretend to understand the man’s proclivities, but he’s inclined in your favour—physically, at least—and I’ve of a mind to oblige him. Think of it as a lesson in subordination, since you’re still hoping to prove yourself useful to the Order. It may teach you a measure of deference and perseverance.”

Armitage gulps. He’s heard of Brooks’ tastes in whispered warnings, seen the way the Admiral looks at boys and girls his age and even younger. But it startles him to hear it spoken about so matter-of-factly. Then it hits him, what Brendol Hux is truly saying.

His father is offering him up. As a gift.

Or a sacrifice.

“You will go to his home at 2000 hours tomorrow evening. You are dismissed.”

**. . .**

It’s 0030 the next morning and Armitage still isn’t asleep. 0045. 0103. He’ll be reporting to Brooks’ home by the end of the day, and the minutes are already vanishing.

He slips out of bed and out of the house, which isn’t a difficult undertaking considering that he lives in the basement with a door of his own to the outside. The half-furnished set of rooms he occupies used to be the servants’ quarters—where his mother once stayed. But he tries not to think of that as he exits the residence. He’s done this plenty of times before, to meet with friends or just to sneak a cigarra. Tonight he has a mission. Hopefully he can find the way on his own. He’d hate to ask a passerby in his stilted Arkanisian.

_There’s an old woman. Who knows things. Of the old ways. Where is she?_

He doesn’t remember the word for _witch_ , if he ever knew it.

Luckily, his navigational memory serves him well. After twenty minutes, he’s standing on the slanted stoop of a shack in the bad part of town, far from the shiny modular buildings of the First Order apparatus. This is a neighborhood for the natives of Arkanis, his mother’s people. He raps his knuckles on the pock-marked wooden door as the boards squeak under his feet.

It opens a crack, just enough for Armitage to see an eye peering out at him.

“ _Evening, boy._ ” The door creaks open another few inches. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” he mumbles in Arkanisan, his tongue thick around the unpractised sounds of his mother’s language. “ _I need something. If you can—might—could? Help me._ ”

“ _You look like us,_ ” she says with narrowed eyes, “ _but you sound like one of them._ ”

“ _Again, I’m sorry. My mother is… was… of the way. My father isn’t._ ”

She nods slowly, perhaps skeptically. But at least she hasn’t shut the door on him.

“ _I’m not_ —permitted, _sorry, I don’t know the word. I can’t speak Arkanisian at home._ ”

Her expression softens and she switches to Basic. “Yes, the rules of the Conquerers. I know them well. We can speak Basic, if need be. But come in.”

He passes through the door and ducks beneath the inner curtain of shells and beads, following her inside. The woman waves toward a chair and he sits. After briefly fussing around the back counters, she returns to sets a cup of tea in front of him. The lip of the vessel is chipped: it’s made from ceramic. Vaguely, he wonders how old it is, or if people here still make such old-fashioned things. He’s so ignorant of Arkanis culture, and it shames him.

“Now. Tell me your name and why you’re here.”

“I’m Armitage,” he says apologetically. It isn’t an Arkanisian name. “My mother told me about you, and the last time I saw her, she said if I ever was truly in trouble and needed help, I could come here.”

“What kind of trouble are you in, half-Conquerer?”

“My father is in the military,” he begins, and there’s no need to specify which military. “And his commander is well known and influential. They’re friends, if my father can be said to have friends. He wants to… use me. My body. And I want to stop it.”

“Can your father prevent it?”

He snorts at the suggestion. “My father told me about Brooks’ intentions. He hopes it will help build my character.”

She hisses a few syllables and although Armitage isn’t familiar with them, he figures it to be a curse.

“My father has always been… difficult,” he says, as though that single word could sum up the bruises, welts, and fasts that have punctuated his life since his mother’s death. “After all, I’m the bastard he never wanted. My mother was just the household cook.” Armitage glances over his raised teacup to look at the woman more carefully. Despite her stooped shoulders and crooked fingers (arthritis, probably), she doesn’t seem as old as she’d first appeared to him. He’d been expecting a crone and although she’s certainly older than his mother, he doubts she’s much over sixty-five.

“You need a strong _dra_ _í_ _ocht_ ,” she states firmly, placing her palms on the table and easing up from her chair. “Something to keep his hands off you.”

As she begins to rustle around the room, inspecting the contents of various jars and packets, Armitage wants to ask about her process. But the woman is humming a tune and he doesn’t know if it’s part of the procedure. He doesn’t want to interrupt. He’s already enough of an outsider.

Once she has located the correct ingredients, her hands work deftly, pinching off sprigs of herbs and combining them with dustings of powder. All the while, she whispers and hums. It may be an incantation or it may just be a song she has running through her head. Armitage watches closely from his seat at the table, taking intermittent sips from the teacup. A tiny orange glow emanates from the mortar, but before he can determine whether the source is fire, phosphorescence, or something else, the light has vanished. The woman scoops the contents of the bowl onto a scrap of leather and ties it up with a string. She approaches him and he sets the cup down on the table with a rattle and stands.

She presses a tiny pouch into his palm. “Wear this around your neck and do not remove it until the danger has passed. Before you go to meet him, you must call on the Force to armour you against him.”

“What do you accept as payment?” Armitage asks. He brought a pocketful of credit chips as well as a full pack of cigarras—because he was once told that tabacc is essential for Arkanasian magic.

She shakes her head. “Nothing for this. A _dra_ _í_ _ocht_ for protecting a child must be given freely. As a gift.”

Armitage bows his head and says, “ _You have my thanks._ ”

She motions for him to keep his head low. As she hangs the pouch around his neck, she whispers, “This is what I wished I had known to make when I was your age. When the Conquerers came for me and my sisters.”

Stepping out into the night, he pauses on the front stoop to wipe his eyes.

**. . .**

“ _I call on the Force, which gives us life, guides us, and sustains us, to protect me now._ ”

Armitage feels nothing unusual as he recites the words his mother taught him, just the old ache of her absence. He pats his collarbone, where the pouch rests unobtrusively beneath the tunic of his cadet’s uniform. Then he takes a deep breath and presses the intercom beside the gate to Brooks’ estate.

There’s a low buzz indicating the audio link is open, but that’s it.

“Armitage Hux, sir,” he announces.

The gate swings open and he steps through. A protocol droid ushers him upstairs to Brooks’ quarters, where the man is lounging on a couch, looking like a slightly undernourished Hutt. The droid vanishes and the Admiral takes a long and obvious look at him. There’s no point disguising the way he’s sizing Armitage up.

“How old are you now, boy?” he asks instead of greeting him.

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Hmm. Well within tolerances. But of course, age isn’t everything. The number alone tells me nothing of your experience.”

He hasn’t been asked a direct question and won’t speak until required to do so. Won’t give Brooks an excuse to reprimand him.

“Have a seat beside me, and let’s chat for a bit.”

The moment Armitage sits, Brooks’ hand is on his knee. He remembers dropping a glass on the floor in front of this very couch, and feels dizzy. It’s been years since that moment, but it seems terribly close.

“Have you had a boyfriend yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have one now?”

“No, sir.” Thank the Force. Otherwise he’d have to _have a conversation_ about what is about to happen. As it is, he doubts he’ll ever willingly discuss this.

“Did you kiss?” Brooks asks, tapping a finger against Armitage’s lips. For his part, Armitage forces himself to keep still, not to display the shudder of revulsion he feels internally.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold hands?”

“Not in public, sir.” He hadn’t dared tempt Brendol’s anger.

“Well, it’s good to be cautious. Not everyone understands people like us.”

Armitage stares straight ahead, willing his face not to grimace at being equated with this jerk. He’s gay, not a fucking paedophile. Or paederast. Whatever.

“Did you wank each other off?”

“Uh, a few times, sir.”

“How about oral sex?”

He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Any penetration? Digital, penile, or with toys?”

“None at all, sir.”

“Ah. Fantastic, you’re practically untouched. You know, you really aren’t all that unattractive. A bit on the skinny side, but I like redheads. One of the reasons I came to Arkanis. All those native boys and girls with pale skin and freckles, and their parents too poor and too drunk to get in the way. I’m thrilled you take after your mother.”

He sets his jaw at the mention of her, clenches it until his teeth begin to ache.

“Too bad she’s gone. Too mature for my tastes, of course. But Brendol was much happier back when he was getting laid regularly.”

 _Back when he was raping her, you mean,_ Armitage thinks. He’s under no illusion about the nature of his parents’ relationship. His mother once told him, “You’re the only good thing that ever came from Brendol Hux.”

“Take your tunic off, boy.”

He rises from the couch and obeys.

“Undershirt, too.”

A thrum of fear rises in him. What if Brooks insists he remove the pouch from around his neck? But he pulls the fabric off over his head and drops it to the floor. Slowly, he risks a glance at Brooks’ face, but the man is looking somewhere lower.

“Now pull your panties down.”

He drops his head so that he can safely scowl as he follows his orders.

“Sweet little dick there. Twirl around and show me your arse.” He lets out a pleased sigh. “Armitage. I am going to have such _fun_ with you. Now spread your legs.” He leans forward and reaches out, slides a hand between Armitage’s arse-cheeks and presses a fingertip against his— “Oh, _yes._ I am going to make this mine.”

Armitage shivers. It isn’t cold in here, but his arms are covered in gooseflesh.

“Get on the bed. I was planning on teaching you how to suck cock first, but that will have to wait for another night. I’m too impatient. Have to get inside you.”

He stumbles toward the bedroom, climbs onto the mattress, and waits on hands and knees. He’s seen porn and figures this will be the easiest position: the one where he won’t have to see what Brooks is doing to him.

The bed dips and the Admiral speaks from behind him. “I’d hoped you’d be smooth, so imagine my delight to discover your arse is entirely hairless. It’s pristine.” He squeezes lubricant into his palm and works it over two of his fingers. “Spread your legs, boy. I need to stretch you out a bit. Don’t want you passing out before the real fun begins.”

Armitage wonders if Brooks has experience with that, if some poor girl or boy fell unconscious from shock—and if Brooks kept going.

The man’s fingers are cool, wet from the lube, and Armitage hisses as the first digit enters.

“Shh, breathe. This is nothing.”

 _Nothing_ , the cadet repeats to himself as he stares down at the pouch dangling above the mattress. _It_ _’s nothing._

“And now for the second one, Cadet.”

When is the charm going to start working? Shouldn’t it have kept Brooks from shoving his fingers up Armitage’s arse? Or before then, when the Admiral had placed a hand on his knee?

 _I call on the Force—_

The fingers withdraw with a sting and a voice says, “Here we go, boy.”

As Brooks forces the head of his cock inside him, Armitage admits that it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. It’s hardly comfortable, but there’s no real pain accompanying the unwelcome intrusion.

“Now, you’re going to need to relax.”

Although he doesn’t understand the command, he doesn’t have time to reflect on its meaning for more than a second. Because Brooks is driving forward, and here it is. The pain has arrived in full bloody glory. Armitage hears himself yelp.

“Shh, baby. Be quiet.” There’s a hand on his head, petting his hair. The attempt at a soothing gesture has him seething.

He bites down on his lower lip and manages to turn his cries into whimpers. He sounds so weak, but he can’t stop. Not when he’s convinced that Brooks is shredding his insides. Is he bleeding? Can a person die from this? He wouldn’t be surprised. “Please,” he chokes out. “Please—”

Brooks’ tone loses all pretense of gentleness as he barks, “I told you to shut. The fuck. Up.”

He shifts forward and shoves his face between his forearms on top of the pillow. Should he apologise? Perhaps. But Brooks has ordered him to be quiet, and Armitage isn’t sorry at all. He doesn’t owe this monstrous man anything, other than—hopefully—eventual revenge. He ticks through a catalogue of miserable deaths. Paralytic poisons. Beatings that pulverise bones. Blaster bolts to the guts.

“Shut up and let me fuck you, you stupid little—”

“Bastard.”

Armitage instinctively lifts his head at the sound of another voice, turns to look and of course. Of fucking course. It’s Brendol standing in the doorway. His expression is uninterpretable.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d accept my invitation.”

The older Hux shrugs. “I figured I ought to see how he’s taking it. Come now, son, you’re hardly the first pansy to get buggered.”

Although his eyes are burning, he won’t give Brendol the satisfaction of watching him cry. He’ll take it like the soldier he knows he’ll be able to become, despite everything his father has said.

“How’s it for you, though?” Brendol inquires courteously.

“Nothing like a first timer,” Brooks declares with a chuckle. “This is probably the tightest hole in the quadrant.”

“You don’t mind the way he’s squirming?” Brendol asks with a judgemental frown.

“Not at all. Gives me an excuse to hold him down. Delicate little thing. Fragile, perhaps. I bet he’ll bruise up pretty.”

“He bruises very easily indeed. Just like his mother did.”

“She didn’t have any other children, did she?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Brooks laments as he drives harder into Armitage’s body. “I’d love to swap between a brother and sister. Maybe have them fuck, too. Ah, well.”

“You’re a raging pervert, Brooks.” But Brendol is laughing lightly.

“And you’re the one watching his friend arse-fuck his virgin son.”

“Hardly a virgin now,” Brendol points out. He pulls the chair away from Brooks’ desk and puts it down beside the bed. Taking a seat, he brings out a cigarra from his inner jacket pocket. “I brought one for you, too. Once you’re finished.”

Brooks twists his fingers in Armitage’s hair. “Good. I’ll want to celebrate. Lift your hips, boy. Let me in deeper.” He sighs. “You know, Brendol. One undeniable positive about fucking boys is this: there’s no chance of ending up with a worthless bastard from it.”

Beneath the pillow, Armitage’s fingers curl into fists. It’s a good thing he’s gritting his teeth too hard to speak because any response he might have would surely see him lashed. He knows the comment was about him.

**. . .**

Armitage sits on the toilet in his fresher and trembles. Brooks’ come drips into the bowl with a sickening patter and the cadet finally permits himself to cry.

His entire body is sore, feels like he’s been wrung out and discarded. Now that he’s been used. His hand goes to his throat and closes around the talisman still dangling around his neck.

Useless. Magic is useless. The Force is useless. Worse than that: it’s a lie, a crutch, just something to keep the oppressed masses from rising up, from taking action. After all, his mother believed, and where had her faith gotten her? A plot in the potter’s field, unmarked and unremembered.

Once he blots himself off and stands on shaky legs, Armitage tears the charm from around his neck and chucks the pouch in the toilet and flushes it down along with the remainder of his childhood.

He won’t recite another prayer or incantation. No, he’ll take action. Although it will likely be years before he has his chance, he will see Brooks and Brendol both die. And he will be the cause of it.

**. . .**

Two nights later, Armitage is sitting on Brooks’ couch, hugging his knees to his chest and staring through the static of the Admiral’s holovid feed. The man is flipping through a few porn channels, trying to select the right material.

“Here, this one ought to be instructional.”

He _has_ seen porn before and maybe it won’t be awful. Maybe it will distract him from whatever Brooks will make him do tonight. Unfortunately, the video that starts playing is hetero—but at least that means he won’t run the risk of getting turned on. He watches as some young woman (he hopes she’s a woman, and not a girl) starts working her mouth over the head of a fat cock.

“Start with your lips,” Brooks is telling him. “And watch your fucking teeth. If you bite me, even accidentally, I’ll make sure you regret it for at least a week.”

He nods heavily. He’s already tired.

“It’s pretty simple. Just bob your head and suck.” After a few minutes, he asks, “Ready to give it a go?”

No. Obviously not. But that isn’t an answer he can give, so he nods again.

“Good boy. On your knees, now.”

Brooks’ voice is currently gentle, but Armitage knows it will veer into harsh territory the instant he shows opposition.

The height of Armitage’s hopes is to perform decently enough to get the man off within half an hour, then trudge back across the compound on his way to bed. Probably swing outside for a quick smoke.

His lips are wrapped around the crown of Brooks’ dick when the door hisses open and Armitage knows who it is before any words are spoken.

“Have a seat, Commandant. There’s plenty of space here on the couch.”

Armitage doesn’t look over. He keeps his eyes shut.

“Any preference for video material?” Brooks asks Brendol, tapping the remote between them.

“What about that one with the tattooed blonde? Starts against the wall, then takes it on her hands and knees like an animal?”

“Mm. Good choice.”

The audio cuts out and now all Armitage can hear is his mouth on Brooks—and Brooks’ ragged breathing. Stupid fat fuck, can’t even get blown without getting winded. At least the new vid is starting up, so that should cover up the sound of—

“For fuck’s sake, Armitage, stop making that horrific choking noise.” This admonishment is accompanied with a smack to the top of his head.

He knits his eyebrows together. His hacking fades and soon all he’s doing is slurping. It’s disgusting, but Brooks lets out an appreciative groan.

“There, that’s what a blowjob should sound like. Wet and sloppy.”

Darting his focus to the man beside the Admiral, Armitage notes that Brendol’s dick is out of his trousers. He’s beating himself off, keeping his eyes glued to the vid. Because why the hell not?

“He’s not bad, you know. For a beginner.”

Brendol lets out a huffing sound and drops a sidelong glance at his son. “This may be the pinnacle of Armitage’s achievements.”

“Oh, he’s going to be such a good little whore. I’ll train him right, you’ll see.” He smiles down at Armitage. “Faster, baby. Using that sweet fucking mouth.” He grunts. “Good boy, good fucking job. Don’t stop, I’m going to—fuck! Swallow that down, Armie.”

No one calls him that. Not anymore, they don’t.

Armitage gulps. At least it’s over now. Brendol will finish wanking to the porn, leave without saying a word, and then he can go home and sleep.

“When was the last time someone sucked you off, Brendol?”

The commandant sighs. “Ages.”

“Well, even a bastard has some uses,” Brooks offers with a smirk. “And a mouth is a mouth. No one will mistake you for a poofter, I promise.”

Armitage waits, the taste of Brooks’ come still in his mouth as the two men discuss him as though he isn’t present. As though he’s some service droid, which on further reflection… Well. He rather is.

“Point taken,” Brendol admits. He clucks his tongue thoughtfully. “No reason to let this opportunity go to waste, I suppose. Come here, boy.”

Armitage’s scalp prickles, but he moves toward Brendol’s voice. His body knows the repercussions will surely be worse if he doesn’t obey. Besides, Brendol will take what he demands regardless.

The Commandant doesn’t look at him during, which is preferable to the alternative. He keeps his gaze trained on the screen. Although Armitage can’t see it himself, he can hear an actress moaning theatrically.

“ _Yeah, Daddy, fuck that pussy real good._ _”_

The word _daddy_ rings hollowly in his ears. He’s never used that word with Brendol, rarely even called him “Father,” but the fact remains that they _are_ related. And as such, he should not be currently gulping down the man’s dick.

“How long has it been?” Brooks asks. “Since you had your balls drained by some slut?”

“Ages,” Hux admits. “At least a year. Well. You’ve trained this one quite ably, Admiral.”

“Thank you, Brendol. I’m rather proud, to be honest.”

_“Pound that hole! It’s all yours!”_

_“Damn right,_ ” a man growls. “ _This cunt belongs to me!_ _”_

Brendol cups a hand around the base of Armitage’s skull and guides him down. “Don’t stop, boy. Finish me off or I swear to the Maker I will end you.”

Armitage almost wishes he would. Just to put him out of his fucking misery.

“Almost done, you worthless little whore. So just keep on sucking.”

“That’s right, Cadet,” Brooks chimes in. “Take that load like you took mine. Like it’s your bloody job.”

“It is,” Brendol insists. “All you’re good for, all your mother was ever good for, was getting used. What a pathetic, stupid piece of shit—Fuck—Yes.”

Although he catches most of it in his mouth, once he sits back on his heels, he’s frozen in place. He doesn’t close his lips or try to swallow, so it begins to dribble down his chin and splatter on the floor. It’s over, at least it’s over for today.

Brendol finally makes eye contact, frowning down at him. “Swallow what you’ve got in your mouth, boy.”

Blinking slowly as he comprehends the directive, Armitage forces the remainder down.

“Now,” the Admiral adds slowly. “Clean that up.” Brooks points at a splotch with the toe of a boot and laughs with his entire body. “Lick this mess up off the fucking floor.”

It isn’t over, then. Not quite yet. There’s one more humiliation left. He’s instantly queasy, lightheaded from the obvious reference to that incident years ago. But he learned his lesson then and so he looks up at Brendol now.

“You have you orders,” Brendol growls.

Armitage obeys, but he will not forget.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notes: Armitage Hux is fifteen and thus underage. This work of fiction contains: graphic rape of a minor; childhood physical and psychological abuse; reference to rape as cultural violence in the context of colonialism; repression of colonialised people; language as an instrument of structural oppression; homophobic and feminising language employed against a queer victim; violent revenge fantasies; and the abuse of parental and military authority.
> 
> The author categorically stands against all of these acts. 
> 
> If any of these themes are triggering, please do not read it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Conquered Lands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213276) by [Orson_Bennett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orson_Bennett/pseuds/Orson_Bennett)




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